


Culprit

by Choke-a-Bro (Vanya_Deyja)



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: AU, Crack, M/M, Multi, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-02
Updated: 2020-03-02
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:14:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22986160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vanya_Deyja/pseuds/Choke-a-Bro
Summary: Regis thinks, for once, he might actually win an argument with his son.
Relationships: Gladiolus Amicitia/Prompto Argentum/Noctis Lucis Caelum/Ignis Scientia
Comments: 34
Kudos: 230





	Culprit

**Author's Note:**

> I might come back and do something serious with this AU idea at some point but it was rolling around in my head and this came out.

The various _signa,_ or ceremonial markings, of Lucis are part of a proud tradition.

The Shields of House Amcitia take a ceremonial tattoo called ‘ _the pledge_ ’ to swear their lifelong fealty to their sovereign. Each Amicitia only ever serves a single royal. No swapping, no changing, no serving for multiple monarchs. It’s all unheard of. You get one royal and you protect them and if you outlive them for any reason it is considered a mark of the utmost shame, a disgrace. The pledge has taken many forms. Amicitias love metaphors; for four generations the members of the house have been named after flowers, for two generations the pledge has been an eagle. There is significance and history in every symbol they adopt.

The Lucis Caelums have their own signa. The _Intemerata_. These markings are temporary and serve a very different purpose. Intemerata are painted on the skin of a royal daily. They are sprawled across the skin often by the same dedicated artists who spend their whole lives hoping to tattoo a pledge onto a Shield. The Intemerata are made using a special formulation of body safe inks. It can be easily dislodged by warm water and skin to skin contact. That is to say; shaking a royal’s hand, kissing their cheek, etc. Those would all smudge the Intemerata which is, in fact, the point.

In old Lucis, being the only scions of the Crystal, founts of magic, the royal house have long since been regarded as sacred idols. Much like the Oracles of Tenebrae. It is still considered a grave trespass to touch a royal, skin to skin, and there are consequences for those who do.

It’s an old tradition.

Regis maintains it because he is a man of tradition but Noctis, for all his frightening power, is not. Noctis finds the Intemerata antiquated and problematic. That said, Noctis is only nineteen and Regis is still King so they both maintain the practice. For now.

Noctis has his own artists and they sprawl every inch of his skin in very vogue designs. Regis prefers traditional monochromatic Lucian hieroglyphs but Noctis has been known to turn heads with his interesting and sometime pointed statement pieces.

Today Noctis is turning heads for all the wrong reasons.

The Marshall, being an old friend, brings it to Regis’ attention around noon.

The scarab beetle on Noctis’ cheek, the one Regis remarked he quite liked this morning over breakfast, is smudged. Now Noctis often has smudged Intemerata on his hands from playing with his nails but this is different. If Noctis had rubbed his face there would be a trail, a smear. No, this is a localised smudge.

Someone touched him.

Probably kissed him.

“Noctis,” Regis starts sternly in the privacy of his formal office. “I suppose you have an explanation to offer?”

“No,” Noctis shakes his head curtly. Stubborn as a mule.

“You are an unmarried Prince,” Regis reminds him. “You can’t just go around—”

“Who I let touch me or not touch me is my own business.” Noctis folds his arms.

“Perhaps,” Regis tries to be reasonable, “but people will talk and—”

“If I wasn’t sprawled in this ink no one would know.” Noctis shrugs nonchalantly.

“The Intemerata is part of a proud, reverent, tradition.” Regis manages to finish his sentence this time with a little assertion. “You are an important political _and_ religious figure.”

“And I’m mortal, and it’s the twenty-first century, and people touch each other.” Noctis shoots back levelly.

“Seems to me you have no intention of explaining or apologising.” Regis supposes.

“I refuse to apologise when I’ve done nothing wrong.” Noctis replies with the utmost certainty. He’s always been unwavering and it will make him a fearsome ruler but Regis wishes sometimes they could compromise on a managerial style. Just while Regis is still alive to fret.

Regis sighs heavily.

“You will go back to your rooms and have your artists redo today’s design before you return for this afternoon’s meetings.”

“I’ll lose time that could be spent otherwise.” Noctis huffs. “These aren’t quick.”

“You’ll have to multitask then.” Regis declares, trying to be stern.

Noctis just rolls his eyes, totally unimpressed and entirely unbothered. Regis has won the battle but the war still rages.

* * *

It’s barely a week later when Captain Drautos hurriedly escorts the Prince to Regis interrupting a private meeting between the King, Clarus Amicitia and Iren Scientia. It’s a closed meeting, important, but so is this and Regis’ Hand and Shield both know Noctis well having been fixtures in his life since before he was even born.

Iren splutters up his tea when Noctis presents himself to his father.

Noctis’ Intemerata are more than a little smudged.

It looks like he’s had a sloppy make out session with a dog.

“Lord above!” Clarus laughs before he can stop himself.

Iren’s glare stops him quick enough and he coughs through his splutter.

Noctis looks decidedly pleased with himself, smug even.

“Noctis Lucis Caelum,” Regis wheezes, “I thought we discussed this?”

“We did and I recall being right,” Noctis shrugs.

“It is obscene to walk around the Citadel looking like you just got debauched!” Iren is much better at being the disciplinarian parent than Regis or Clarus.

“If I wasn’t covered in ink because of an outdated, impractical, tradition no one would know.” Noctis snaps back without a second’s hesitation.

Iren pinches the bridge of his nose.

Regis heaves with a sigh.

“Who touched you?” Regis demands.

“Whoever I wanted to touch me.” Noctis answers.

“There are consequences, Noctis,” Clarus reminds him. “It is forbidden to touch the royal family without permission. Especially in this capacity. We have to hold your accomplice accountable for—”

“You want to whip and chide someone whose attention I wholeheartedly consented to.” Noctis snaps. “You want to punish them because you can’t punish me. Frankly, I think _my_ consent is the only _permission_ needed when we’re discussing who gets to touch _my_ body.”

The men glance, discernibly uncomfortable. It is an old argument. Intemerata has, at times, been used to shame royals. Especially female Lucis Caelums. It can be debated but Noctis’ modern objections are not unfounded.

“Perhaps,” Iren takes the hard line; “but this is a sacred tradition that emphasises the preciousness of the royal house. A lot of things would have to be done and considered if we were to cease the tradition. The temple would be dismayed. There would be talk.”

“I am heir apparent to the throne of Lucis.” Noctis maintains, puffing himself up to a height Regis can barely ever reach but which seems to come so naturally to his son. “I am beholden to the gods alone. I will not be corralled and chided by temple priests or gossiping courtiers.”

“You are the Prince,” Iren agrees, “so you are beholden onto the gods _and_ your father.”

Eyes swivel pointedly to Regis.

Noctis waits.

“If this happens again Noctis, there will have to be serious consequences,” Regis tells him. “Now go get cleaned up before someone sees you.”

Noctis turns his nose up and stalks out of the meeting room followed by Captain Drautos.

Regis sags.

“I have an awful feeling I’m not going to win this,” Regis tells his retainers sombrely.

“Oh we’ll win,” Iren declares. “Noctis needs to be held accountable. Perhaps we can’t talk sense into him directly but his lover might be more amenable to sense.”

“What are you suggesting exactly?” Clarus supposes.

“We lay a trap.” Iren explains. “There is an element that can be added to the Intemerata dye which makes it harder to smudge but also stains the hands of those who smudge it.”

“So we catch them red handed, so to speak?” Clarus concludes. “An interesting idea. Majesty?”

Regis considers it.

He would like, just once, to win an argument with his son.

“Let’s do it,” he decides. “I think it might help us in the long run.”

* * *

It does not help them in the long run.

Oh it seems to, at first, when Drautos escorts Noctis to the King’s offices two weeks later. He’s thoroughly smudged again, utterly debauched, and looking smug as the devil himself.

“You will sit,” Regis tells him, “and we will wait and, very shortly, we will have a very frank discussion with you and your accomplice.”

“Good luck with that,” Noctis huffs, arms folded.

Iren reports to the King’s chambers, looking somewhere between vindicated and offended, dragging Gladiolus Amicitia behind him. Gladiolus has the good sense to look a little sheepish, rubbing anxiously at his hands, and Iren grabs one meaty wrist to present the black stained hands to Regis.

Regis sighs. He should’ve suspected this. Noctis and his Shield have always been close.

“Sit,” Regis orders, “we need to have a discussion about—”

“You’ll never guess who I found, Majesty,” Clarus announces, escorting Ignis Scientia into the office.

“Pardon?” Regis blinks.

“Seems we’ve caught our culprit.” Clarus explains.

“There must be a misunderstanding,” Iren dismisses, “I already caught your son red handed. Besides, Ignis has much better sense than to—”

Clarus yanks Ignis’ hands up and, sure enough, more black ink.

Ignis looks mortified.

Iren looks mortified.

Regis feels colour draining from his face.

“Two?” He turns on his son. “You are sleeping with _two_ of your retainers?”

Noctis says nothing, inspecting his nails.

“Your Majesty,” Cor Leonis coughs, striding into the disaster. “If I might interrupt—”

“Now is not the best time, Marshall,” Regis answers. “The Prince and I have _many_ things to discuss.”

“That’s why I’m here, Majesty,” the Marshall grunts, tugging a—

_Is that the stable boy?_

“Found him in the kitchens trying to wash off.” The Marshall explains, demonstrating the blonde boy’s absolutely pitch-black hands.

Clarus and Iren glance, stupefied, between Regis and Noctis.

The blonde boy is blood red.

Regis turns to Noctis, jaw slack, and…

“You…” He can’t find the exact words right now. “Three…? _At the same time?_ ”

Noctis smirks.

“Just saying,” Noctis shrugs nonchalantly, inspecting his nails, “that maybe you don’t want to know all the details of my personal life.”

Regis sags to sit, unable to hold himself up anymore.

Regis takes a second, unable to look at anyone in the room, and…

“The Prince will, henceforth, wear whatever signa he chooses to or chooses _not_ to.” Regis murmurs. “And we will never speak of this again. Am I clear?”

“Yes, your Majesty,” the room choruses.


End file.
